The Daily Babble

Blogging and Writing: Little Ironies

On Monday, for the first time ever, this blog hosted more than 1,000 visitors. The total for two days is upwards of 1700. Wonderful news, huh? Not so much.

Almost all the hits were links from a post on This Modern World, and they were not to the current posts, not even to any of the hundreds of posts this year, the many thousands of words I've written here. They were to a photograph, posted about a year ago. According to what I can tell, few if any of these visitors stuck around to read anything other than the caption to that photo.

It remains to be seen if any of these visitors return. Probably not--I doubt that any even saw the name of the blog. It's an amusing little irony perhaps, but it's hard not to understand it as an odd way of emphasizing to me, after a year or so, how few readers this blog still has. This isn't the first time that it's occurred to me that I could be making better use of my time. I tell myself I do it mostly for my own purposes--for the fun of it sometimes, for the satisfaction of making something every day or so, to test and stretch, or even simply as an elaborate and time-consuming way of making notes and preserving links for future reference. And I know that over time, I am providing an online resource, that people can use for reference. Even if it's with a photograph.

But it's hard not to doubt my own judgment when it isn't shared. I don't usually follow news stories day to day, but I have recently, and I think my posts here compare favorably to other sites, both in timeliness, the quick selection of the important items and stories, and in the writing. I could be wrong about this, and the extent of my readership suggests that I am. But my problem isn't admitting the possibility of being wrong. It's that I don't know how to not be wrong--that is, what else I can rely on besides my own judgment.

Another story: I write a lot, and a lot of different kinds of writing for different purposes; although I always do my best, I usually have a strong idea of what turns out okay, what's not so great, and what's really good. The last two times I've written something for publication that I thought was really good--and naturally then had fantasies about it being recognized as such--editors made changes that led me to feel my work had been made much less good: from exceptional to pedestrian.

The effect of the first of those two was a surprise: an editor who failed to get to a long piece in a timely way caught me off guard with serious last minute changes that I couldn't focus on dealing with in the little time I had. Thinking that it wouldn't really matter that much to me, I complained but let it go. I was wrong. The changes did screw up the piece--in my judgment, but not only mine; and although not a lot of people compliment me on anything I publish these days, exactly nobody did for that piece. But what really surprised me was my own reaction. I felt mortified and ashamed. I did everything but hide in the house for the week it was still on the stands.

The second instance was this past Sunday--the same day as those many meaningless blog hits--when my review of Richard Powers' new novel appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle. I'd felt that the last review I published there didn't turn out well . So I was determined to work harder on this one. Plus I really admire Powers and this novel, and I seldom get to review high-powered literary novelists anymore. When I finished it and sent it in, I was pretty happy with it. I thought I'd nailed it.

But when I read it in the paper I thought I must have been wrong. It didn't read as well. There are certain age related issues I worry about, such as declining vision which lets errors slip by that wouldn't have before, and I thought that once again I'd let awkward constructions and unmelodious sentences get by. But then I went back to the text as I wrote it and sent it, and I saw that the newspaper had made changes, small ones mostly, that screwed up the music, the flow, the precision and even the meaning. In one case, the change led to an inaccuracy. The changes didn't seem to all be for space (one added words), and there wasn't incorrect grammar to fix. I'm guessing that it was a young copy editor out to appear useful. But I don't know. (I wrote to my editor there--I've been doing reviews for him for years--and he said that I should have been sent the revised copy for my approval, and that in future I certainly would be. That used to be standard, and it's all I ask.)

In a way it was good to see that by my standards, my writing hadn't slipped. But in the judgment of somebody, my standards weren't correct. And now nobody (except those who find the review here on my book blog) will read what I actually wrote, but something deformed that neverthless appears under my name. (Actually, for the book blog appearance I restored a cut and moved a paragraph from the version I sent to the Chronicle.)

I probably shouldn't care about any of this, and on some Buddha level I don't. I did have the pleasures of reading this book, and two earlier Powers' novels over this lovely summer, just as I enjoy moments and people I meet covering stories, however they come out in print. And I realize that these little ironies point up more than the delusion of judgment, but the basic delusion that for good, bad and indifferent, rules this part of my life. It may even be alarming: Writing isn't about reality. Writing is my reality. But the basic and persistent problem is a basic and persistent problem of life and living--my function in the world, my place in any kind of community, the opportunities to explore potential, and share what I consider to be the best I have to give.

This opens the door to a plethora, a panoply, a Pandora's Box of related issues, which are better left. Which is where little ironies aren't so little anymore, although I have to admit, they remain ironic.

Elsewhere...

An essay on the first three episodes of the new Doctor Who second season...

and some reflections on these strange times in This North Coast Place